The Humanization Humiliation
by Wordsplat
Summary: In which Tony and Clint get drunk for science, Bruce is sneakier than expected, and Steve almost drops his pants on live national television. Also known as the time the Avengers had to give interviews displaying their human side, which was really not Fury's best idea. Oneshot, TonyxSteve


"Tell me he isn't going to kill me."

"I'm not really sure I can do that," Clint admitted with a wince.

Tony collapsed back on the couch with an aggressive sigh.

"I'm not asking you to be honest," Tony grumbled, "Just lie."

"Tony." Clint shot him a serious look. "Captain America almost flashed his star-spangled dick on national television. You and I? Dead men."

"I'm pretty sure it isn't _actually _star-spangled."

"Luckily for America, we'll never know for sure."

"I mean, can you imagine how awkward that would be?"

"Tony."

"It'd be like getting fucked by an American flag."

"Jesus, Stark! Can we focus on maybe convincing Steve _not _to kill us instead of talking about your weird-ass kinks?"

"I didn't say it was a _kink, _I said it'd be _awkward—"_

"Can we please leave the talk about your obsession with Cap's dick for later? Humiliated, hungover super soldier trying to kill us, remember that?"

"Death," a very familiar voice announced gravely from behind them, "Is far too good for you two."

Clint and Tony yelped, diving off the couch and taking off at top speed down the hall.

"_Run!"_

* * *

**Yesterday Afternoon**

* * *

"Tony, I can't do this."

Steve looked miserable. The one year anniversary of Loki's first invasion had been last week and of course the media was still getting their money's worth out of it. They were doing studies, bringing in experts, going on and on about the effects superheroes had wrought in their year's presence. Which was ridiculous, because yeah, okay, sure they'd crashed into more than a couple of buildings and they ate double their collective weight in takeout after battles, but Tony totally paid for it, and they'd also saved the planet from being enslaved by aliens like eight times, so.

The point was, the Avengers were taking a bashing. They were being blamed for everything from global warming to the dismal job market, and Fury was adamant that they couldn't take that kind of publicity. The media was painting them as mindless soldiers under Fury's command, and in response, Fury commanded each Avenger to give an interview.

The irony was lost on no one.

They weren't supposed to talk about the Initiative or their battles like the question panels they'd been on in the past, where Tony and Clint dominated most of the conversation and kept everything light and joking and helped the others avoid anything too personal. These interviews were supposed to be a way to show what they were like in everyday life, and they had to talk about themselves, their teammates, and what life at Avengers Tower was like. They could pick their channel, their host, their time, whatever they wanted, but bottom line was they had to get their asses on tv and show a little humanity.

Tony had done his in less than a day—he'd had an interview scheduled that afternoon anyway. He pulled it off with his usual aplomb, talking about his teammates and their quirks and how there would be a reality show about them but there wasn't a camera crew in the world that would last a day. None of the others had given a formal, televised interview before, but for the most part they took to it well.

Clint and Natasha had done theirs together, some late night talk show they were hoping no one watched. While an interview with one of them might've been awkward—Natasha wasn't great at giving direct answers, and Clint could be obnoxious as hell—together they were an internet sensation. Clint teased Natasha and made her look lighter, more human, while Natasha kept Clint in check, smacking him whenever he went over the line.

Bruce had been excruciatingly difficult to convince. He had the Hulk in relative control—getting asked an irritatingly invasive question was hardly likely to make him go big green and angry—so it was more about his own personal comfort. He hated crowds, cameras, and attention; an interview on live television was the epitome of everything he hated.

Fury had insisted though, and Tony had pulled a few strings—okay, very few strings, hello, Tony Stark here—and got Bruce on the Daily Show. Jon Stewart was least likely to be a dick about the Hulk thing, and most likely to ask even the serious questions with a bit of humor, which was exactly what Bruce needed to help him relax. In the end, it had gone about as well as it could've; Bruce still stuttered on camera and looked like he was about to faint or puke at any moment, but Stewart kept the interview light and informal.

Most of the questions were about what Bruce thought of his fellow Avengers and what life in Avengers Tower was like, which Bruce answered with ease and dry humor. He got plenty of laughs, but none as loud as when he let slip that Tony Stark wore Captain America boxers.

"You swore silence!" Tony hissed at Bruce from backstage as the cameras cut to commercial. "I am betrayed, Banner! Betrayed!"

"I didn't mean to." Bruce made a face. "He asked what you were like out of the suit—"

"And my boxers were the first thing you could think of?" Tony demanded. "What happened to doctor-patient confidentiality?"

"For the last time, I'm not that kind of doctor. He said 'out of the suit' and all I could think was that time you wandered into my lab without pants—"

"I'd been up for 74 hours, I wasn't thinking straight—"

"It's humanizing, Tony." Bruce reminded him. "Isn't that the point of all this?"

"I'm plenty humanized, thank you!"

"You're just embarrassed because now Steve knows." Bruce shook his head with a chuckle.

"I don't care about that, why would I care about that?"

"Whatever you say."

Tony continued to deny it, but Bruce just gave him that cryptic, knowing smile, and Tony scowled his way home. Stupid, perceptive Banner.

Thor's interview had been a rousing success, and by far the most popular. He answered each question honestly and with enthusiasm, eager to express his delight with life on Midgard. He talked a little about his home and their customs, which led to him freely admitting that he did indeed miss his world and his people, but that so long as Midgard needed him, he would give his life to protect it.

He talked next about Jane, about how she and Darcy and Selvig had first shown him the wonders of this realm. His earnest love for Jane was ridiculously obvious, through his words, through his voice, and especially through the soft, besotted smile he gave every time he said her name. Even his distinctly masculine interviewer was practically swooning by the end.

Yeah, Thor was pretty popular these days.

One week after Fury's mandate, and Steve was still trying to get out of the interview. He'd declined thirteen offers so far, each for more and more ridiculous reasons, until Fury had threatened to bench him until he picked one. He'd finally selected one at random, only realizing he'd chosen a live interview after he'd already phoned in his acceptance.

Now, he and Tony stood in Steve's room. Steve didn't have to leave for his interview until three and it was only noon, but Steve was pacing back and forth anyway, trying to piece together something presentable. Well, Tony was trying to piece together something presentable for him; Steve was more concerned with talking Tony into letting him cancel the interview.

"Cap, relax. You've fought Nazis, aliens, supervillains—hell, remember the time we fought that weirdo that was all three? You can do this, big guy."

"You'll come with me though, won't you?" Steve looked small, oddly enough, anxious and uncomfortable.

"Of course, I'll be right offstage the whole time. Tell you what, I'll even try and stand sort of behind the interviewer so you can look over his shoulder, and imagine we're just hanging out in the shop, or out to lunch or something. No pressure; just you and me."

"I suppose." Steve still didn't look quite satisfied. "You're sure you can't come on air with me?"

"Unfortunately not, mon Capitan." Tony offered up the suit jacket he'd dug out. "Now why was this hidden? You'd look fantastic in this."

"It's a bit formal, don't you think?" Steve wrinkled his nose at it. "And Clint and Natasha went on together, I don't see why we couldn't."

"Clint and Natasha went on together because they're secretly conjoined twins and we couldn't separate them if we tried. Also, everyone and their mother knows _something's _going on there, and the public loves to speculate on a good old fashioned will-they-won't-they." Tony patted Steve on the shoulder to make him hold out an arm so he could help him into the jacket. "Now stop whining and suit up."

"I wasn't whining, I was protesting." Steve corrected with a roll of his eyes, but there was hint of a blush on his cheeks. "And…who says they couldn't speculate we're a will-they-won't-they?"

Tony gave himself the briefest of moments to fantasize, before he shut it down and forced a laugh.

"Slow down there, Cap. You don't need to champion _every _cause, you know." He turned away from Steve to go through the man's ties, taking a little longer than he really needed, giving himself a moment to get it together. No need to go showing Steve exactly how much he wished that were the case. "There are plenty of ways to support gay relationships without pretending to be in one."

"I didn't mean—"

"Here we are," Tony quickly cut him off, looping a light blue tie around Steve's neck, unwilling to discuss the idea any further. There were a hell of a lot of things he'd do for Steve, but pretending to be in a relationship with the man he was in love with was a level of masochism even Tony hadn't quite reached. "Not quite as blue as your eyes, but nothing really is so I guess it'll work."

Steve flushed like Tony had been hoping for, and Tony hid a smile. They were close, chest to chest with only a few inches between them as Tony took perhaps a bit longer than strictly necessary putting the finishing fixes on Steve's tie. When he could find no other excuse to continue touching Steve, he patted him on the chest and stepped away to get a good look at the full picture.

"Damn, Rogers." He let his gaze linger only a brief moment before getting himself in check. "Forget about all your cute faces and blushing, you're gonna knock em dead the minute you walk in the room."

"You think it looks good?" Steve looked pleased, though he seemed more interested in watching Tony react than looking in the mirror.

"Yes." Tony did his best not to sound as breathless as he felt.

"Well." Steve finally turned to look at himself, tugging at his tie a bit. "Thank you. For helping, I mean. At least I'll look decent while I flounder."

"You're not going to flounder." Tony rolled his eyes. "Just pretend you're talking to me. Or, you know, Natasha or Bruce or whoever it is that makes you most comfortable. You're good with people, Steve. You're going to be great."

"You certainly have a lot of faith."

"I know you. Everyone loves you, Steve, it's impossible not to."

"That's not quite true." Steve's expression was, for once, completely unreadable.

"Well, yeah, okay." Tony carefully sidestepped his train of thought—_I do—_and focused on something else. "Nazis, maybe. And supervillains, you tend to foil their plans a lot, but we're talking normal human beings here. When you walk in, just make sure you smile and wave at them before you start talking to the host, it makes you look approachable. They'll take one look at that friendly face and this snappy suit, and they'll be hanging on your every word."

"I doubt _that." _Steve rolled his eyes. "I'm not exactly very…well, you know."

"I really don't." Tony raised an eyebrow. Steve waved a hand, but Tony still wasn't sure what exactly he was going for.

"Uh." The tips of Steve's ears went a bit pink. "Interesting."

Tony blinked. Steve mistook his stunned silence for agreement, and started talking again, shifting anxiously.

"I just, I don't really have all that much to talk about. You know that, it's you I always go bother in the shop—"

"Bother?" Tony repeated dumbly. It was only the best part of his day, but, hey, sure, bother. That worked too. Not.

"You don't have to make such a face." Steve flushed a bit more, but he still had that stubborn, I-am-going-to-say-what-needs-to-be-said-and-you-ca n't-stop-me look in his eyes. "I know I'm not exactly the most interesting conversationalist, but I'm okay with that. I'm comfortable with you…with, um, you guys, all of you, that is, but I was awful at those USO tours, and I'm going to be awful at this interview. You don't think there's any way you could convince Nick to cancel it?"

Steve thought he was a bad conversationalist? That he was _boring?_

"Look, I know generally speaking I try to be as sarcastic as I can possibly manage," Tony admitted, "But I'm being completely honest when I say that you are the single _least _boring human being I have ever met. I'm a wealthy celebrity superhero, Steve, I've met a lot of people, and _you're _my favorite. What does that say about you?"

Okay, he hadn't meant to mention the favorite thing, that was pretty embarrassing, but Steve had just looked like such a kicked puppy, with his downcast eyes and that miserable little frown. It was kind of worth the admission to see the way Steve lit up at hearing it.

"Favorite, huh?"

"Don't gloat. I'll demote you, don't think I won't."

"Sure, Tony." Steve rolled his eyes with a smile.

"That's it, you're demoted. Bruce is my new—no, he talked about my underwear on tv, what am I thinking, forget him, Clint's my new favorite."

"So that was true, then?" Steve raised an eyebrow, a grin sneaking across his face.

"What was true?" Tony froze. Shit.

"You have Captain America boxers."

"I didn't say that."

"You _do_." Steve looked delighted. Tony wanted to melt into the ground.

"No, I most certainly do not—"

"You have boxers with my face on them." Steve just shook his head, still grinning obnoxiously. "You know, if you wanted to get me in your pants that badly, all you had to do was ask."

Steve stepped closer with a careful smile, but Tony was too distracted by his new train of thought to realize what Steve might've been attempting.

"That!" Tony just accused, pointing at Steve. "That right there proves my point. Boring my ass, you have fantastic sense of humor, Rogers. You just have to let it shine."

"Right. It was just a joke." Steve shifted, moving away a bit, but Tony was too preoccupied with detailing his point to notice.

"We've just got to loosen you up is all, make you forget you're on camera…" Tony mused.

A beautiful, wonderful, hilariously perfect idea occurred to him. He opened his mouth to tell Steve, but stopped himself in the nick of time. Steve would never agree to it in a million years.

Oh well. There were other ways to accomplish his new mission.

"Gotta go Capsicle, just relax, and remember to take your water bottle! Hydrate whenever you get nervous." Tony patted Steve on the shoulder, already darting out the door. "Don't worry about a thing. Trust me, I'm a genius, remember?"

"Genius. Right." Steve sighed.

* * *

"Wanna help me steal some alien booze and get a 97 year old supersoldier drunk off his ass?"

Clint blinked up at Tony from the rec room couch.

"Fuck yeah."

"I knew you were my favorite." Tony grinned in response.

"Steve's your favorite." Clint just snorted, rolling off the couch.

"Just for that, I'm demoting you. Thor's my new favorite."

"Well, I guess you can get Thor to help you then—"

"Shut up, Barton." Tony elbowed him. "Now come on, JARVIS says Thor's got his stash locked up in his room. I can unlock the door through JARVIS, but I need your lock-picking expertise for the cabinet."

"Tony Stark, genius extraordinaire who learned astrophysics in one night, can't pick a lock?" Clint snickered.

"I _can,_" Tony grumbled, "But we've only got a few hours to get Steve smashed before he leaves for the interview, and you're admittedly faster at this sort of thing."

"Admit I'm better at something than the great Tony Stark."

"_Faster, _not better, there's a difference."

"When it comes to lock-picking, faster is better."

"Okay, whatever asshole, you're better at one thing than I am, now will you just help me pick the damn lock?"

"It would be my genuine pleasure." Clint grinned.

The lock was child's play to the superspy, and Clint had it open in under five minutes. The booze looked, as Thor would say, glorious; it was stored in ornately carved glass containers, different but not unlike wine bottles. Clint and Tony exchanged a look.

"It would be wrong to give it to Steve without testing it first, right?"

"Definitely." Tony hastily nodded his agreement, pulling out one of the bottles and twisting off the top the way Thor had showed them. "We have to make sure it's not, you know, poisonous or anything."

"And we need to find out how much it takes to get drunk."

"Right. It's basically for science."

"Exactly."

Two hours and three bottles later, Tony and Clint were all but puddles on the floor. Tony was poking Clint in the side insistently, and Clint rolled over with a groan.

"Go 'way, dun wanna be alive yet."

"Dude, 'm like 946% sure we had a thing."

"Don't wanna thing wit'you, man," Clint slurred, "Already gotta thing. S'not a you thing, s'a Tasha thing."

"Nah, we had a…" Tony blinked, struggling for words. "A t'do thing.A Steve thing."

"A foursome sounds like a lotta work dude—"

"No no no, I mean—" Tony waved his hands wildly. Then he got distracted by his hands. "Whoa. Whoa, Clint, whoa. They _move."_

It took an embarrassingly long time for them to get off the floor. They eventually stumbled their way down the stairs, only managing not to slip, fall, and crack one or both of their heads open through sheer dumb luck.

"J!" Tony called as they reached the communal floor, "J, J, J—"

"Yes, sir?" JARVIS answered crisply, disapproval evident.

"Where's Steeeve?"

"I must strongly advise against this plan, sir."

"Dun be a buzzkill JJ, where's my Stebe?"

"Again, I must—"

"I'ma pull rank on you, yer bein' a bad bot." Tony blinked, catching himself off guard, then burst into song. "Bad bots, bad bots, whatcha gonna do?"

"Whatcha gonna do when they come fer youuu?" Clint pitched in, slinging an arm around Tony's shoulder.

They made it to the kitchen at this point, and collapsed in hysterics. Clint leaned against the island, while Tony tried to grab a counter to stabilize himself and missed entirely, ending up sprawled on the floor.

"The thing!" Tony wheezed, scrambling back up, "We gotta do the thing!"

"The thing?" Clint peered at him curiously, completely lost.

"The Steve thing!" Tony grabbed at the bottle they'd brought down with them, then started going through cupboards and cabinets in search of Steve's water bottle.

"The thing where yer in looooove with him?" Clint sang gleefully, still slumped against the island.

"Not that thing, the other thing, the drunk thi—" Tony turned around to check a different cabinet, and tripped over Clint's legs. "Shitfuck!"

They ended in a tangled heap, though Clint's reflexes, even slowed by alcohol, were enough to save the bottle of booze from shattering against the tile.

"What on earth are you two doing?"

Bruce had entered the kitchen, and was now looking at them in bewilderment.

"A thing." Clint offered cheerfully, albeit unhelpfully.

"A Steve thing." Tony didn't really help to clarify much.

"What kind of Steve thing?" Bruce asked suspiciously.

Tony made a strange, scrunched up face. He seemed to be trying very hard to push through the haze of alcohol and give a solid answer. Finally, he turned to Bruce solemnly.

"Yes."

"That's…" Bruce gave an exasperated sigh. "Are you two really drunk? It's only two thirty in the afternoon."

"Steve!" Both men exclaimed, shooting up. They tore through the cabinets and even the fridge, looking high and low for their prize.

"Should I even ask what you're looking for?" Bruce raised an eyebrow.

"Bottle!" Clint told him emphatically as he pulled out each and every pot and pan they owned to turn them upside down pointlessly.

"I'm going to take a wild guess and assume that means you're looking for Steve's water bottle?"

"Brucie-bear, dun be silly." Tony tapped him on the nose as he passed. "Why would we be lookin' fer that? No, we're lookin' fer Stevie's water bottle."

"…right." Bruce rolled his eyes. "Well. Don't look for it on the counter directly in front of your face or anything, that would be 'silly'."

Just to be contrary, Tony did so, then promptly gasped like he'd discovered the holy grail. What he'd actually discovered was a white plastic water bottle with 'Steve' written on the side in black sharpie, but to each their own.

"Water bottle!" Tony snatched it up, holding it aloft as his prize.

Bruce watched as Tony and Clint crowded around the bottle, trying and failing to pull the Asgardian bottle open.

"I think it twists ope—"

"Shh, Brucie boo-boo," Clint hushed him.

"Let the grown-ups handle the things." Tony patted his arm.

"Says the man who wears Captain America underwear," Bruce muttered.

"Conf'dential!" Tony screeched accusingly. "S'curity breach!"

"Bro." Clint clasped his arm sincerely. "E'ryone knows you want Steve's face on yer junk. We symp'thize, he's all nice an' spangly an' shit an' yer into it, we get it, it's cool, man. Chill out."

"You two are lucky you're the loveable kinds of dumbasses." Bruce sighed, and knelt down to twist open the bottle. "Also, that I'm just as curious to see what our Captain is like intoxicated."

"Fer science?" Tony suggested innocently.

"For science," Bruce chuckled, neatly pouring the booze into Steve's water bottle without spilling a drop.

"Drunk fer science." Clint high-fived Tony.

"M'life story." Tony snorted in amusement.

"You should get that on a t-shirt," Bruce suggested as he methodically went about cleaning up their disaster zone of a kitchen, disposing of the booze bottle in the recycle bin under the sink, and replacing Steve's water bottle exactly where he'd left it.

"Life story?" Tony blinked.

"Drunk for science," Bruce corrected. "And since you're unlikely to remember this conversation, I think I just found you a Christmas gift."

"Y'know what I want fer Christmas guys?" Tony leaned back against the island, a mopey look on his face.

"Steve," Clint and Bruce answered immediately, rolling their eyes in sync.

"I could jus' wrap him up in a bow an', an' stick him under the tree, an' in the mornin', I'll get Christmas kisses." Tony hummed happily. "Even Steve can't resist Christmas kisses."

"I don't think Steve can resist you period, God only knows why." Bruce snorted, but Tony wasn't listening.

"They're fer Christmas, s'not even like they're real kisses, he can suck it up an' think of 'merica."

"He'd probably be thinking entirely about you, actually—"

"_That's _why Steve won't love me, I'm losing t'merica!" Tony moaned.

"Yes, that's it." Bruce rolled his eyes. "It couldn't possibly be your inability to listen to anything but the sound of your own voice. Or your tendency to get drunk at 2 in the afternoon while pulling pranks on him."

"S'not a _prank," _Clint insisted, tugging on Bruce's shirtsleeve, "S'helping. We're bein' good friends, Brucie."

"Clearly." Bruce smiled wryly.

They only lasted a little while longer before they passed out, Tony on top of the counter with Steve's water bottle clutched to his chest and Clint in the kitchen vent with one foot dangling out.

* * *

When Tony woke up, he had a blisteringly painful headache. He hadn't been this hungover in…at least a year. Maybe more. He gave a loud groan, and let the world filter in slowly. He didn't remember coming to bed, but then, he didn't remember much of anything after his first couple of drinks. Clint had been there. Bruce too, at one point. Steve? No, but they'd been talking about him a lot.

There was something he should remember but couldn't quite manage to; it wasn't a new feeling. Oh well, he'd remember eventually, or not. It couldn't be that important, or he would've remembered. He rolled over in bed, and saw a sticky note stuck to his bedside table.

That was new.

_Sorry for earlier. Hope you still tune in._

It was simply signed _Steve, _and Tony groaned again. Loudly. He'd fucked up big time if Steve wasn't even signing his notes with his usual little cartoony doodle of Captain America. He tried in vain to remember what he'd done; he'd help Steve pick out a suit, tied his tie. Told him he'd do great, everyone except Nazis loved him. Reminded him to hydrate during the interview, left to enact his plan—

Oh god.

The plan.

Tony was supposed to be _with _Steve, making sure he only got a little buzzed. Asgardian booze had a deceptive little trick—it didn't taste like anything. Which had been good for the original plan: Steve wouldn't notice what he was drinking, and once he was sufficiently relaxed, Tony could swipe the bottle and replace the booze with water during a commercial break.

Tony checked the clock—4:53, _fuck. _Tony shot out of bed, grabbing his shoes off the floor and racing down the hall to jab at the elevator button. He was still in his clothes, so thankfully he didn't need to waste time getting dressed. His hair was probably a mess, but he ran a quick hand through it while he was waiting for the elevator.

"JARVIS, where's Barton? Please tell me he woke up before I did and stopped Steve from taking the water bottle."

"Agent Barton remains asleep in the kitchen vents, sir. Captain Rogers was unable to reach him without assistance, so he settled for kindly putting you to bed so you did not awake sore as well as hungover."

The judgment was thick as syrup in JARVIS' voice, and Tony could tell exactly where JARVIS thought Tony should've been left.

"Fuck." The elevator opened, and Tony stepped inside to begin lacing up his shoes. "Okay, send me to the communal floor. Has Steve drunk any of it yet?"

"The interview does not begin until 5pm, but he was quite anxious about being forced to do on his own what he thought you would assist him with, so I imagine might have."

"Yeah, I'm a shitty person, I got it, JARVIS." Tony scrubbed a hand over his face. "God, I am_ such_ a shitty person."

The elevator let him out on the communal floor, and he threw pots and pans at the vent until the clanging woke Clint up. Clint bitched and moaned about how loud Tony was being for all of three seconds, until the situation came back to him.

"Oh, fuck."

* * *

"Let's give a warm welcome to Captain Steve Rogers, everyone!" The host gave a wide, showman's smile.

That was his cue.

Steve edged out from behind the curtain. Wow, the audience was a lot larger than he'd expected. The lights were a lot brighter than they'd been in rehearsal, too. He wished they hadn't put quite so much stage makeup on him. It felt strange. He wondered if it might melt off under all the lights.

_Focus, _Steve chided himself.

What had Tony told him to do when he entered? Smile and wave, right. Look approachable. He offered the audience a half-hearted, fluttery sort of wave, and tried to smile. It felt more like a grimace. He'd feel a lot better if Tony was running around backstage somewhere. Actually, if Tony were here, he'd probably go out into the audience just to make faces at him, get him to really smile.

This would be so much easier if he were here.

The already false smile on Steve's face faltered even more. He _would _be here, if Steve hadn't gone and suggested they had the potential to be more than friends. What had he been thinking? Of_ course_ Tony would be uncomfortable with that. Tony always swiftly changed the subject whenever Steve hinted at anything, was always the first to look away when they had to take decontamination showers at SHIELD (a surprisingly frequent event, villains sure loved their radiation), and Steve had heard far too much about Tony's womanizing past.

Sure, Tony didn't bring strange women around now, but Steve had been hopeful and naïve and clearly read too much into it. How could he have deluded himself into thinking anything but the obvious? He hadn't expected Tony to try and drink himself into an early grave over it, but he'd known all too well that Tony wasn't interested.

To be perfectly honest, he was a little peeved about the drinking part. Sure, maybe he shouldn't have said anything, but he hadn't thought Tony found him so completely un-datable that the mere _suggestion _that they had romantic potential warranted a drinking binge.

Great, he was probably scowling at the crowd now.

He quickly put on his best smile and offered his hand to the host, who jokingly pretended Steve's grip crushed his hand. Steve gave a nervous sort of laugh, unsure how else to respond.

"Now that's what I call a handshake, folks! Take a seat, Captain, Captain Rogers, Steve, can I call you Steve?"

"Just Steve is fine." Steve took a seat, careful not to fidget or bounce his knee or anything.

"Man, I'm on a first name basis with the guy who hung on my wall for ten years, look at that!"

He was only joking around and the crowd got a kick out of it, but Steve still wasn't sure exactly how to respond. He hated how much they'd commercialized him after his supposed death. He'd been a soldier doing his duty, nothing more or less than any of the other soldiers he'd served with. Yet, it was his face on posters and trading cards and action figures, and innumerable other products; it was all so over the top.

Though, considering how many dreams he'd had of Tony in nothing but those star-spangled boxers since Bruce had mentioned them, he supposed the underwear was alright.

"Look at that blush! No need to be shy big guy, I'm only joking."

Steve thought dryly that he probably shouldn't mention that he was blushing because he'd been having dirty thoughts about his teammate, not because of whatever the host had said.

"So how's your day been so far?"

"Good, and yours?" Steve winced as soon as the words were out.

Tony had warned him about that one. He was supposed to take the opening question and turn it into a story somehow, give the host something to work with, bounce future questions off of. Instead, he'd just given the first automatic response that came to mind.

He'd never felt more acutely aware of how boring he was in his life.

He really hoped Tony wasn't watching this after all.

"I see you're as polite as they say," the host just chuckled, "I'm interviewing my childhood hero, so I'm doing—how would you say it, swell?"

Steve wanted to point out that he'd just been asked how his day was and had said 'good', not 'swell', but that might've been kind of rude.

"Swell works." He tried to put on a smile. He couldn't help himself; he glanced over the host's shoulder, looking backstage.

_Tell you what, I'll even try and stand sort of behind the interviewer so you can look over his shoulder, and imagine we're just hanging out in the shop, or out to lunch or something. No pressure._

_Just you and me._

There was no sign of Tony. Steve took a long drink from his water bottle.

Tony and Clint pushed and shoved their way through the studio—literally. Tony was definitely going to have to send flowers or something to the intern he'd knocked over. They were now standing just offstage, watching as Steve gave a loud laugh in response to something they hadn't caught.

"Maybe he didn't drink it yet?" Clint said hopefully, but Tony knew better.

Steve was slouching in his seat a bit, his laugh was loose and easy, and he waved a hand wildly. Steve was not even close to that comfortable on camera.

"Oh, he drank it. But…" Tony analyzed the situation. The host seemed surprised but pleased, and Steve looked relaxed and happy, so he'd certainly had some, but maybe they were just in time? "We'll definitely swipe the bottle at the next commercial, but I think he's doing alright."

This was, of course, when Steve stopped laughing and answered the question.

"You wanna know about _Tony?" _Steve's voice was a bit slurred, not nearly as bad as Tony and Clint had been, but clearly not as formal and polite as he usually was with civilians. It wasn't Steve's voice that had Tony's attention though, but his words. "Oh gosh, the things I could tell you about Tony."

Tony made to walk out on stage and stop Steve himself, but Clint held him back.

"Dude, that's live, if we start a scene without good reason, Fury will _murder _us!" Clint hissed.

"Barton, I swear to god, if you don't let me go _right now—"_

"Sounds like you've got some interesting information there, Steve. Care to tell us what it's like living with the infamous Tony Stark?" The host was clearly enjoying himself, wagging his eyebrows to egg Steve on. "Genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist…anything that man can't do?"

"Function before noon." Steve snickered, earning a full belly laugh from the host.

Tony began to struggle against Clint with renewed vigor, but Clint just kept him in a vice-like grip and watched Steve gleefully.

"Genius billionaire playboy philanthropist nothin'." Steve continued, snorting derisively with an exaggerated wave of his hand. "He's just a big ol' softie inside that tin can armor of his."

"_My reputation,_" Tony hissed in a way that would've made Gollum proud. Clint just rolled his eyes and kept the man subdued.

"A softie, huh? This I have to hear." The host was grinning from ear to ear, clearly ecstatic about getting the scoop.

"Shh," Steve murmured, putting a finger to his lips, "It's a _secret. _Tony doesn't want anyone to know, see? He gets all weird about his reputation."

Tony made a strangled sort of noise, and Clint clamped a hand over his mouth.

"Shut up Stark, it's getting good."

"Does he now?" the host prompted.

"Yeah. He wants people to think he's all Mister Suave, but he's really just a goofball. He does this little dance thing sometimes, when he's finished a big project? Like, like this."

Then Steve was standing up, shaking his hips and nodding his head in a mimic of Tony's inventing groove. He could only do it a second or so before he was wobbling unsteadily, stumbling a bit and falling back into his chair with a tipsy little laugh.

"And you should see him yell at the bots. 'Specially poor Dum-E."

"Really? Can they understand him?"

"Oh, sure. They're like…baby JARVIS'. Tony always says they know exactly what they did wrong, but I think he just likes having someone to talk to down in that big empty shop a'his, even if it's yelling and not really talking. He picks on Dum-E the most, always putting him in time-outs and stuff."

"Time-outs?"

"Yeah, usually when he drops the blender. When he messes up projects, he gets the dunce hat."

"I'm sorry, the what?"

"The dunce hat? Tony says it's cause he's a dummy. Dummy Dum-E, get it?" Steve cracked up again, bending over in his chair he was laughing so hard. When he finally caught his breath, he was grinning affectionately. "They're pretty glitchy and they can't really do a whole lot, but he adores them. They make better omelets than he does, though."

"The billionaire bachelor can't cook?" The host turned to the audience with a sarcastic grin. "There's a surprise."

"God help me, he can't cook anything but omelets." Steve rubbed a hand over his face. "And they're _so bad."_

Tony made an undignified squeak. His omelets were fantastic! That rat bastard—

"You sound like you've had to stomach more than a few." The host patted Steve's hand in mock sympathy, though he was grinning. And why shouldn't he be? This was all gold. Humiliating, life-ruining gold.

"Well, yeah." Steve looked surprised that the host had even mentioned it. "I'd never tell _him _I don't like them."

"I imagine Stark's a pretty hard guy to say no to." The host chuckled to the audience, sharing the joke.

"You have no idea," Steve moaned, rubbing a hand over his face again, "He makes this…face, when I say yes to things. He's just, he's so _happy, _and I want him to stay like that. I hate it when he's sad."

The host blinked once in surprise, but recovered quickly.

"His 10 digit bank account probably helps soothe some of that pain," he joked.

"I think it's 12, actually," Steve quirked his head in correction, clearly clueless about the near heart attack that gave the host, "And I don't think so. I think it jus' makes him lonely."

Steve's slurred "just" went largely unnoticed in lieu of the fact that he'd just told the world the man they loved to hate the most was lonely.

"_Kill me." _Tony begged.

"Shush, I'm watching," Clint covered Tony's mouth with his hand so he could continue watching Steve in rapture.

"I…well." The host cleared his throat, trying to play it off. "That's certainly a new perspective."

"Did you know he wears my boxers?" Steve giggled—not laughed, giggled. The host seemed perfectly happy with Steve's non sequitur, eager to talk about something that didn't involve the words "lonely" and "Tony Stark", but Tony just wanted to die. "Not _mine, _I mean. They just have my face on them. But it's still cute."

Steve Rogers, the object of his undying love and also, hey, a national icon, just said he was lonely and cute on national television. Also that his omelets sucked. Tony's day could not possibly get any worse.

"Cute, huh?" The host was making a strange sort of face now, clearly trying to decide whether he wanted to pursue this track of questioning or not. "That's uh, that's not usually the word for Tony Stark."

"Really? I always think he's cute. He's so tiny."

The host and audience both burst into laughter, and Steve giggled right along.

"Compact, god damn it!" Tony snapped, but his indignation was muffled by Clint's hand.

"Well, we've heard a lot about Stark, but what about you?" The host smoothly shifted topics. "Let's get a glimpse at those muscles, shall we? Want to show camera one over there?"

The host pointed Steve towards the right camera, clearly expecting him to make a few poses, model a bit, then sit down. Instead, because Tony's day clearly _could _get worse, Steve took off his jacket and started unbuttoning his shirt.

"Really? Well, alright, if you say so."

"Is he—?" Clint blinked. "Oh. Wow. Should we maybe stop him?"

"I, um." Tony's brain wasn't entirely online at the moment, all thoughts completely derailed by the little flashes of smooth, creamy skin Steve was revealing, button by button.

"I mean, I could try and tackle him, but I'm not so sure that would really do anything—"

"Uh, well, hey, that's one way to show us your muscles." The host was laughing, seeming surprised but not completely put-off. "Now, what else did the serum enhance? We know about your muscles of course, but what about things like your intelligence, or your memory?"

"My memory's fantastic." Steve nodded in answer, leaving his shirt unbuttoned but on, apparently distracted from his strip show by the question. "I can see and hear better, too. Also, check this out."

Steve stood, hands going to his belt buckle.

"Holy mother of fuck, is he—?" Clint's grip on Tony went slack in shock, and Tony used the opportunity to break free and dash out on stage, cameras be damned.

"I mean, it's cool and all, but d'you have any idea how weird it was the first time I tried to mas—whoa!"

Tony grabbed Steve's hands and yanked them away from his belt buckle. Clint was just one step behind Tony, already blustering excuses about emergency Avengers meetings and such, you know how it is, etc etc.

"Tony!" Steve's face lit up, and he abandoned his attempts at his belt buckle to throw his arms around Tony's neck. "You did come!"

"Um, hi, yep, totally came, why don't we get you offstage now—"

Tony managed to disentangle himself long enough for Clint to grab Steve's other arm and help steer the supersoldier offstage while the host stuttered about how they'd be right back after a quick commercial.

"Did Captain America just talk about the first time he masturbated with his new dick on _live national television?" _Clint whisper-hissed to Tony once they were off camera.

"Don't remind me. I'm so dead. He's going to murder me. I'm going to be murdered by Captain America—"

"He's going to murder me too, dipshit! Shut up and help me haul big blonde and not-so-bashful over here out of the studio before he tries to drop his pants again."

"I'm not gonna murder you, Tony." Steve just gave a dopey sort of smile and tried to touch his face. "Why would I murder you?"

"Trust me, buddy, you're going to be able to come up with plenty of answers to that question all on your own in a few hours when this wears off." Tony assured.

"Your beard is scratchy." Steve patted Tony's cheek.

"Good to know." Tony was paying more attention to where they were going than Steve's rambling. Was it this door that led to the parking lot, or the next one?

"D'you think it'd give me beard burn, or would the serum work too fast?"

Tony tripped.

"Keep it together, Stark." Clint just tugged him along with an eye roll. They went out a pair of double doors and into the parking lot. "Would you hurry up? If security catches up we'll have to explain why Captain America just tried to flash the nation. Now where the hell did we park again?"

"Uh." Tony was still disoriented by Steve's question. Beard burn implied heavy kissing. Which implied Steve was thinking about heavy kissing. With _him._ "Second row, I think—Cap, are you thinking about kissing me?"

"Well." Steve gave him an obvious sort of look. "Duh."

"_Duh?" _Tony sputtered, "What do you mean, _duh? _And who the hell taught Captain America 'duh'?"

"I mean…" Steve blinked, confused. "I mean duh."

"So if I kissed you _right now," _Tony demanded, "That'd be okay?"

"Yeah." Steve was starting to look sad, examining his shoes. "But you're not int'res—"

Tony immediately seized Steve's face and kissed him with enthusiasm. If Steve was only ever going to be drunk enough to agree once, there was no way in hell Tony wasn't making it count.

God, it was so worth it.

Steve melted against him with a little sigh into Tony's mouth, happy and compliant and everything Tony had ever dreamed. He put his hands on Tony's hips, then, unsatisfied with that, ended up just circling them around Tony's waist and hugging him close as he could. Tony reveled in it, happier in that one moment than he could ever remember being.

It was a bad idea and sober-Steve was going to murder him and then insist they have a talk about the Inappropriate Nature of Tony's Feelings but for one, all too brief moment, Tony didn't give a fuck.

"Stark, I know you think you're some kind of multitasking god, but even you can't kiss and drive—"

"You couldn't let me have my one god damn minute?" Tony pulled away reluctantly to mutter at Clint, patting Steve on the arm with a mournful sigh. "Worth it while it lasted."

"Tony?" Steve's eyes were wide and…hopeful? Tony shook the thought away.

"C'mon, let's get you home and sober you up."

"But, but Tony, you—"

"I know, I know, sorry I'm not sorry, let's just save the argument for later, alright?" Tony sighed, manhandling Steve into the backseat and joining Clint in the front.

He started up the car and turned to check if he was clear to back out, and caught Clint staring at him.

"What?"

"Oh, don't mind me. I'm just constantly amazed by the depths of your denial."

"What denial?"

"Exactly." Clint rolled his eyes as Tony peeled out of the parking lot. "You know, I could probably clear this whole thing up in a matter of minutes, but to be honest, I'm kind of curious which one of you will crack under the weight of your own oblivious stupidity first."

"Did you hit your head?" Tony side-eyed Clint.

"Yeah, that's totally it. Don't mind me." Clint snorted. "Your beau's asleep, by the way."

"Damn, already?" Tony glanced in the rearview mirror. Well, shit, he totally was. "How the fuck are we going to get him out of the car?"

"I'm sure as hell not waking a hungover, pissed off supersoldier up."

"I could lift him if I suited up, maybe."

"Carry your prize off to bed, nice."

"Shut up, asshole. And if he doesn't remember I kissed him, you don't talk about it on pain of death, you understand?"

"What, you think my silence is free?" Clint snorted. "I want a new set of arrows, something explosive—"

"Okay, sure, whatever—"

"_And._" Clint shot him a look. "I reserve the right to tease you about it when he's not around."

"No."

"Hey, Steve, guess who you macked face with while you were drunk off your ass—" Clint pretended to announce.

"Fine." Tony grit his teeth. "One of these days, Barton, you're going to jump off a building and I'm going to 'unfortunately' be too slow to catch your bony ass—"

"Excuse you, my ass is perfect. There are _websites _dedicated to the perfection that is this ass—"

"There are_ not—"_

"Hawkass dot com, bitch."

"I don't know who's weirder, the website owner for dedicating a website to your ass, or you for going to the website."

"Been to? I'm a premium member."

"…yeah, it's definitely you."

* * *

Steve was pretty sure he was dead.

Nothing else explained the searing pain in his head, the way he felt pinned in place by a force stronger than gravity, and the way light threatened to blind him when he opened his eyes.

Oh, God, the light.

It was so bright it practically burned, and Steve quickly closed his eyes again. It didn't stop the pounding in his head. His senses started to pick up on the rest of the world—the smooth rub of the sheets beneath him, the warm weight of the comforter on top of him—and Steve had to admit that "dead" might be a bit of an exaggeration.

He rolled over, tangling himself in the sheets a bit, peeking open one eye to glance at the clock. It was nine in the morning, he must've slept in—so why did he still feel so horrifically awful?

He thought back to last night, and was startled to find it a blur. He remembered the morning and afternoon fine: he'd done his morning run, ate breakfast with the team, did team exercises, hung out with Tony in the shop a while, got cleaned up, Tony helped him pick out a suit for the interview—

The interview.

It was nothing but a blur of bright lights and exaggerated laughter; Steve couldn't remember anything specific about it at all, couldn't think of a single question he'd been asked. He shot up in bed, and immediately regretted it—had someone clubbed him over the head? God Almighty it hurt.

What on earth was going on?

His eyes landed on his bedside table. There was a glass of water, a stack of toast, and a note. He ignored the water and toast to pick up the note, hoping for answers.

_Steve,_

_I've fled to Mexico, don't bother trying to find and kill me. Advil won't do you shit, but drink the water and eat the toast. If life still sucks, go into the shop and tell Dum-E to make you one of my hangover smoothies. Yes, it's supposed to be blue, just drink it, it really does help._

_Sorry._

_Tony_

Hangover smoothie? Was this a hangover? It would explain a few things, but why—not to mention how—on earth did he have one? And what did Tony mean, not to bother trying to kill him? Was Tony the one who'd given him a hangover?

Well, if anyone could…

"JARVIS?"

"Yes, Captain?" JARVIS' voice was soft, almost muted, and Steve appreciated the gesture immeasurably.

"Where's Tony?"

"I'm afraid sir has overridden my code, Captain. I am unable to disclose that information. Perhaps you might be interested in Agent Barton's whereabouts? He's re-watching your interview in the living room on sir's floor."

Good old JARVIS.

"Thank you."

"My pleasure, Captain."

Steve rubbed a hand over his face, then gave in and asked.

"JARVIS, can you tell me what Tony did?"

"I'm afraid I am unable to disclose that information as well." JARVIS sounded apologetic. "Captain, it should be noted that his intentions, though misguided, were only to make things easier for you."

Make things easier…had Tony gotten him _drunk _for the _interview?_

Steve quickly downed the water and devoured the toast. He was still in yesterdays suit, so he took a rushed shower and threw on some fresh clothes before making his way to Tony's floor, growing more and more upset with each moment. How could Tony have _possibly _thought that was a good idea? What on earth had he been _thinking?_

JARVIS didn't announce his presence on Tony's floor, for which Steve was grateful. He came up behind Tony and Clint while they were lounging on the couch, watching…oh, God, was that him?

It was.

On tv, Steve was unbuttoning his shirt, something about showing the camera his muscles. He was swaying unsteadily, with a dopey looking grin, and when the host asked him what else was enhanced, he started to unbuckle his pants.

Steve's eyes went wide in shock, though thankfully the screen showed Tony racing over to him and quickly pulling his hands away. Steve threw his arms around Tony's neck exuberantly, proclaiming how happy he was Tony had come after all, then Clint and Tony were steering him offstage.

Steve had seen enough. He stepped forward, about to announce his presence—

"Tell me he isn't going to kill me," Tony groaned.

"I'm not really sure I can do that," Clint winced.

"I'm not asking you to be honest." Tony collapsed back on the couch with an aggressive sigh. "Just lie."

"Tony." Clint shot him a serious look. "Captain America almost flashed his star-spangled dick on national television. You and I? Dead men."

That was for sure.

"I'm pretty sure it isn't _actually _star-spangled."

"Luckily for America, we'll never know for sure."

"I mean, can you imagine how awkward that would be?"

"Tony."

"It'd be like getting fucked by an American flag."

Steve flushed, and Clint groaned.

"Jesus, Stark! Can we focus on maybe convincing Steve _not _to kill us instead of talking about your weird-ass kinks?"

"I didn't say it was a _kink, _I said it'd be _awkward—"_

"Can we please leave the talk about your obsession with Cap's dick for later? Humiliated, hungover super soldier trying to kill us, remember that?"

"Death," Steve announced, deciding he'd listened to enough talk about his equipment for one lifetime, "Is far too good for you two."

Clint and Tony both yelped, diving off the couch.

"_Run!"_

The idea that they thought they could escape him was so ridiculous it was laughable. Steve caught up immediately, grabbing them both by their shirts and yanking them back.

"Tonykissedyoudon'tkillmeplease!" Clint blurted.

"_Barton!" _Tony yelped.

"What?" Steve's grip slackened, which must've been the idea, because Clint immediately used it to his advantage and twisted away to disappear off down the hall. Tony tried to follow suit, but _that _sure wasn't happening. Steve just grabbed him again and demanded, "Is that true?"

"Um, hi, so, maybe we should talk about this sometime later, like never, never would be awesome—_"_

"_Tony."_

"Okay, pressing me against a wall is really not the best way to have this discussion—"

Steve closed the gap between them.

It was surprisingly easier than he thought it'd be. He'd spent so much time in the past weeks—alright, months—making all these different plans about how he'd convince Tony just to see him romantically that he hadn't really given much thought to the parts beyond that. When he had, he'd thought it would be difficult. He'd thought he'd have to psych himself up, that he'd be hesitant and nervous and he'd have to force himself to just go for it.

Leaning in to kiss Tony had been easy as breathing.

It was instinctive and immediate, and when Tony gave a surprised gasp Steve just used it to his advantage, tilting his head and nipping on Tony's lower lip. Tony's hands fluttered in the air a moment, as if he wasn't quite sure what to do with them, before he settled for clutching Steve's arms like he was holding on for dear life and kissing back with unexpected fervor. He surged upwards, his hands travelling from Steve's arms to his shoulders, his neck, his hair. Tony's hands mapped his exposed skin, calloused palms making Steve shudder under his touch.

"Was—mm." Steve pulled away to speak until Tony yanked him back in, the grip against the back of his head near painfully desperate. Steve carefully extracted himself with a hand on Tony's chest anyway. "Was Clint telling the truth? Not to mention, what in the hell were you thinking getting me drunk in the first place?"

"Is there any answer here that involves more kissing, because I was totally good with that—"

"Tony."

"Yes, okay, I did, but Clint helped me with the drunk part and I'm pretty sure Bruce was involved somehow and I meant to only get you tipsy so you wouldn't be so nervous, because when you can relax you're really funny and I was so sure they'd love you if you could just stop being so anxious for ten minutes, and I was gonna take it away once you loosened up a bit but then I got drunk and—" Tony took a pause and a deep breath before continuing his babbling at breakneck pace. "—you put me to bed and I didn't wake up in time to get to the studio before you got drunk but we showed up before you could flash America so, y'know, that's good I guess, but then you were talking about beard burn and I asked if you were thinking about kissing me and you said duh, which, okay, so _not _an answer by the way, and I asked if I could kiss you and I totally waited until you said yes, you were a consenting and delightfully enthusiastic party so please don't tell Fury or god forbid Coulson that I mouth-raped you because I'd kind of like my dick to stay where it is."

Steve stood there a moment, trying to absorb everything Tony had just said. Finally, he sighed.

"Life with you is never going to be boring, is it?"

"Does that mean you're not going to kill me?"

"Why did _you_ get drunk?"

"For science?" Tony winced. "It was there, I was there, Clint was there…it seemed like a good idea at the time."

"You didn't…it wasn't because…" Steve knew he wasn't finishing his sentences and therefore probably wasn't making sense, but he couldn't stop from breaking out in a smile.

"What's that look for, are you reading my mind, don't do that it's dirty in there—"

"I thought you got drunk because I'd suggested we could be a will-they-won't-they."

"Why would I—oh, you were trying to—_oh."_

"Right." Steve gave a nervous sort of chuckle, shifting a bit. "Oh."

"Steve, subtlety is not my strong suit—"

"You're telling _me."_

"—so if you're actually interested you're going to need to spell it out for me because I've been half in love with you for months and you pushing me into corners and kissing me is generally speaking what I dream about so I'm operating under the assumption that this is a totally awesome if mildly more confusing dream than usual until explicitly stated otherwise—"

Steve kissed him silent again, because if Tony's babbling was any indication, it seemed like he could.

"Tony."

"Hello." Tony blinked up at him a bit dazedly.

"This is not a dream."

"Are you sure? Because seriously, this is _exactly _like one of my dreams—"

"Do you often get me drunk on national television in your dreams?"

"That is a new one," Tony admitted, "Did I mention Fury screamed at me and Clint for like four hours last night about that? He benched us for a week barring an intergalactic war and assigned us solitary clean-up duty for the next decade barring nothing, not to mention I'm pretty sure he popped a blood vessel sometime around the third hour and the forty-second time he used the phrase 'blaspheming a national icon'—"

"Go to dinner with me."

"What? You mean as a—"

"As a date, and as a preamble to many more dates." Steve stepped closer, wrapping his arms back around Tony's waist. "Because I, Steve Rogers, am very romantically interested in you, Tony Stark, and would like to go steady with you, see you, date you, whatever the term is these days for me getting to kiss you on a regular basis."

"I—_yes._" Tony seemed startled by the force of his own reply, and tried to play it off. "I mean, you know, if you insist."

"I do." Steve smiled warmly, indulging him.

"Then it's a date. But if you think I'm waiting until the end of the night to kiss you again?" Tony looped a finger into Steve's shirt collar to pull him back in. "Then baby, you don't know me at all."


End file.
